


If on a Winter's Night a Traveler

by journalxxx



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:51:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/journalxxx/pseuds/journalxxx
Summary: A charming tale of stunted conversations, rubbing alcohol, and providential matchstick boxes.





	If on a Winter's Night a Traveler

Ford's head snapped up instictively as he heard the door of the boat creaking open. He glanced at the clock on the wall, blinking at it in mild surprise when he saw it was only 1 am. Nothing strange with the fact that he had worked for more than two hours without quite noticing, it wasn't unusual for him to lose track of time while engrossed in some task. However, he wasn't expecting Stan to come back to the boat so soon. Whenever his brother decided to spend the night socializing with the locals, he usually ended up staying out into the early hours. A couple of doors shut a bit too loudly, promptly followed by the noise of his brother stomping heavily around deck, kitchen and bathroom.  
  
"Are you looking for something?"  
  
He could barely interpret the low grunt he got in reply.  
  
"No, it's nothing."  
  
Ford sighed, resigning himself to the obvious fact that Stan's evening must have taken the wrong turn. Nothing exceedingly unusual with that either, yet it still meant that his twin was going to be a veritable bear at least for the next 24 hours. Ford shrugged, resuming his task. He couldn't quite fall back in his usual focus though, as the stomping and the sharp smacks of cabinets and cupboards banging open and close grew steadily more annoying over the next few minutes.  
  
"You really do sound like you're looking for something, you know."  
  
Another grunt, followed by a low curse.  
  
"Where's the goddamn alcohol?"  
  
Ford frowned, Stan's needlessly belligerent tone rubbing him the wrong way.  
  
"Sounds to me like you've had enough at the pub."  
  
This time Ford could definitely discern a 'fucking smartass' somewhere within the following growl. He huffed, letting the conversation die again for the grand total of fifty seconds, before an even louder crash made him physically turn towards its source.  
  
"What _on earth_ are you doing?"  
  
"I told you, I can't find the goddamn alcohol!" Stan barked back from somewhere upstairs and, before Ford could suggest him about taking a dip in the harbor to cool off instead, he added, "The rubbing one, not the drinking one."  
  
"...Oh." Ford looked back at the small bottle and at the damp and dirty cloth shoved at the corner of his desk, mentally chiding himself for missing the obvious conclusion. "Sorry, I have it here, I was cleaning some pieces of equipment."  
  
He grabbed the bottle and stood up to bring it to his brother and stop his overly energetic search, but he didn't get as far as the door of the room before hearing a muttered 'Never mind' and the bathroom door shutting with another bang.  
  
That actually surprised him. Although bad mood was to expected in those occasions, that level of pointless pettiness was a bit exaggerated. He glanced at the bottle in his hand, making a not too far-fetched connection, and walked up to knock at the bathroom door.  
  
"Is everything all right?"  
  
"Yeah. Sorry for distracting you."  
  
He didn't sound tremendously sorry, so Ford decided he wouldn't feel sorry for opening the door without waiting for permission.  
  
"Do you need this or no- What the hell?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I look fantastic tonight. Get back to your gizmos."  
  
Stan glared at him from the mirror, evidently displeased by his brother's presence. Ruffled hair, split lip, and almost the whole right side of his face roughly scratched, scraped and bloodied. It wasn't by any means the worst state Ford had seen him in, but he still made quite a sight.  
  
"What the hell happened to you?"  
  
"To think that people say you're smart. People get into a bar. People drink. People get out of the bar in bad shape. Take a guess."  
  
Ford frowned, reaching out to put the bottle near the basin his brother was using to wash his face.  
  
"If you had half of that attitude by the time you got in, it really doesn't take much imagination. Really, what happened though? Did someone start a brawl? Did _you_ start a brawl?"  
  
"Oh, you want the full goodnight story?" Stan snorted, grimacing in pain as he patted the sponge far too rudely on his cheek. "Sorry, no brawls. I just had a, ah, strong disagreement with the barkeeper."  
  
"The barkeeper?" Ford's eyes widened, a terrible doubt dawning on him. "Please, tell me you didn't try to flirt with his daughter. I _specifically_ told you to stay well away from her, I heard her talking about getting married next month! Why of all people-"  
  
"Geez, hold your horses. I know, you kicked me under the table every time I so much as looked at her yesterday. No, I did not try to hit on his daughter. Happy?"  
  
"Far from it." Ford crossed his arms, looking at his brother sternly. "Would you mind just telling me what happened or do I have to keep guessing all night?"  
  
"And why exactly are you so interested in how I spend my free time?"  
  
"Because" Ford uttered, almost gritting his teeth with the effort to stay rationally, patiently, mercifully calm, "I have to run a few errands in town tomorrow before we leave, and I would like to know - if it's not too much to ask - if I should expect someone to try to smash my nose because of a random bar fight I know nothing about. It's always nice to know you're as careless as ever about tarnishing my reputation and crime record. God knows different IDs aren't nearly enough for people to tell us apart."  
  
"Oh. Right. Of course. It's about you. How could I ever forget. As if-" Stan stopped talking abruptly, letting out a small incredulous laugh and shaking his head. He looked straight at his brother, and Ford was surprised to find in his eyes more hostility than he had seen in quite a while. "Look. Just... fuck off, Stanford. I really don't need your shit on top of this."  
  
Ford held Stan's gaze for a few seconds, before relenting and showing his palms in mock surrender.  
  
"Fine. Have it your way. Goodnight."  
  
He strode out of the bathroom without waiting another second and sat back at his desk, resuming his work on the delicate machinery. A few minutes later, he heard Stan leave the bathroom and head back upstairs, then out of the cabin.  
  
The small menial task required enough precision to keep Ford engrossed for a while, but it was also dull enough to let his mind wander. The main topic of his thoughts was, needless to say, his brother and his positively insufferable temper. Their conversations tended to devolve into full-blown arguments and biting bickering with a frankly alarming frequency, and, in all honesty, Ford was willing to bear the responsibility for that for no more than half of the times. Fragments of the recent conversation floated in and out of his mind seamlessly, somehow dulling his anger to a low buzz of annoyance.  
  
Eventually, each component of the antenna was duly cleaned and fixed. It would be much easier assembling it the next day, in full daylight, but Ford decided he could give it a try with the halogen light right then. He didn't feel like retiring to bed yet, anyway. He gathered tools and equipment and headed up on the deck. Stan was there too, facing the complete darkness engulfing the horizon, his arms leaning on the railing as he smoked quietly. Neither twin so much as acknowledged the other, nor anyone spoke for the entire time Ford took to figure out how to light the stand properly and piece together the instrument. But, as Ford collected his stuff to head back downstairs and finally to bed, it was Stan who unexpectedly broke the silence.  
  
"It was the barkeeper's son."  
  
"The ever smiling and quiet fisherman? It takes some skill to piss off people like him to the point of violence. Color me impressed."  
  
Stan paused, taking a long drag from the cigarette and exhaling slowly before replying.  
  
"No. I meant it was the barkeeper's son I tried to hit on."  
  
That got Ford's attention. He finally looked at his brother, who hadn't moved from the opposite end of the boat. He was still facing away from him, puffing out small clouds of smoke and condensation in the cold winter air. The concept looped a couple of times in Ford's head before he ventured a reply.  
  
"...I see how that could cause some misunderstandings."  
  
"No shit."  
  
Silence stretched between them, both heavy and delicate. Ford thought back to the pacific young man, to the demure and pleasant impression he had got while exchanging a short conversation with him the previous day. He thought back to the boisterous barkeeper and to his chatty wife, to the welcoming and rustic bar that gathered and entertained the few inhabitants of that very quaint, very simple, very traditional small coastal town.  
  
"...But why?"  
  
"What do you mean, 'why'?" Stan finally turned to look at Ford. A band-aid and a tiny patch of gauze had been haphazardly applied on the most evident cuts, but a large enough portion of Stan's face remained uncovered to display his clear annoyance.  
  
"I mean-" Well yes, Ford had meant _why_ too, but... Not primarily, in that particular instance. He walked up to his brother, scratching his head in confusion. "I mean, why him? Why now? Why _here_? It's... Well, did you expect anything else to happen? In a place like this?"  
  
"Why not? I already have to be on the lookout for smoking-free areas these days, do I have to find a proper place for that too?"  
  
"That... doesn't make any sense. I mean, you always claim to be the one who knows how to read the room, but this... really sounds like a poor idea."  
  
Stan shook some ash off the cigarette, a crooked smile twisting his features.  
  
"Mh. Maybe you're right. You were right before, it is your right to know about this. God forbid I don't take responsibility for _tarnishing_ your reputation so badly."  
  
Ford's posture stiffened instinctively. "I didn't mean anything like that. And you know it."  
  
"Only because the possibility didn't even cross your mind, Sixer."  
  
"Stanley." Ford frowned, shivering slightly because of the cold, but mostly because of the ominous tone the conversation was rapidly assuming. "Don't take this in the wrong way, but... it's like you've been actively trying to pick a fight with me from the moment you came back to the boat. What-"  
  
"Oh, really?" Stan suddenly left the railing, flicking the cigarette off-board and moving to stand right before Ford, shoulders squared, head held up high, defiance oozing from every pore. The dim light from the lamp cast distorted shadows on his marred features, making him truly look like a deranged street thug. "How curious, I got the same impression from you. Guess I'm not done yet with the punching for tonight."  
  
Ford didn't react, genuinely baffled by his brother's irate response. That too, finally, got him thinking.  
  
If there was one thing that a couple of months of forced cohabitation had provided Ford with, it was a plenty of time and occasions to observe his brother, which was also one of the main purposes of the trip. Simply catching up with the lost time, and with each other. He had had, of course, plenty of occasions to observe Stan dealing with several degrees of anger, and he had noticed something peculiar. Despite his quick temper, it was uncommon for Stan to truly, completely give in to the tentation of settling a dispute with brute force. It was mostly a last resort, one he attempted when he felt he had run out of other possibilities. In short, when he felt cornered. Or scared. Like when, for example, he was greeted with a punch in the face by a long lost brother he had been waiting to meet for thirty years. Or when he was faced with the possibility of losing his house, belongings, and established lifestyle by said spiteful brother. Or even when he was forced to take part to a mysterious magic ritual to banish a mind-controlling demon from existence. Or also when he found himself stuck on a boat in the middle of the ocean with a man looking almost exactly like him with no memory of how he got there. Those kinds of objectively disquieting situations.  
  
Obviously, there were also many times when Stan's violent attitude stemmed from sheer lack of patience, stubborness, childishness and unwarranted desire to show off. Ford's inability to discern among the various causes had created, and would likely keep creating in the future, a remarkable number of misunderstandings. This time, however, he thought he had more than enough clues to draw a sensible conclusion.  
  
Ford's lack of reaction prompted Stanley to challenge him a tad more openly, and Ford simply watched as his brother took another cigarette with calculated slowness and arrogance, bringing it to his lips and trying to light it. 'Trying' being the key concept, since apparently his lighter chose that particularly unfitting moment to give up on him and run out of gas. It clicked ineffectively a few times as Stan tried snappily to get one last spark out of it, before he gave up and shoved it back into his pocket. He simply stood there, his unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth, his jaw clamped tensely, waiting for Ford's move. Braced for the impact.  
  
Ford tried his very best to come up with the right words for the situation. He found he couldn't choose any. So, with the same deliberate tranquillity of his brother's gestures, he fetched the small match box in his back pocket, he picked one, stroke it, and held it high between them, his free hand shielding the trembling flame from the chilled breeze.  
  
It was Stan's turn to stare at him in confusion. His expression shifted indiscernibly in the flickering light, and he didn't move for so long that the flame moved along the match almost to the point of burning Ford's fingertips. Eventually, something cracked. He let out a white, misty sigh, and his demeanor seemed to somewhat deflate, his shoulders caving back into their usual slouched posture. He bent slightly forwards, keeping the cigarette still with his fingers as he touched it to the match. He took a couple of quick drags to light it properly, then he turned away towards the pitch black harbor, resting his weight heavily on the railing again.  
  
Ford mimicked him, settling beside him to stare at the dark nothingness. The silence was still rather uncomfortable, but at least it didn't feel as if someone's neck was about to snap at any given moment any more. He considered that as a marked improvement. Until that moment, they had kind of silently agreed not to touch the matter of Stan's questionable past times when they docked, but the poor handling of the present situation had made the topic a proper elephant in the room. Ford thought again on how to word his questions, and he decided that there was nothing to gain with dancing too much around the subject.  
  
"...Did he take it out on you in front of everyone? Did no one step in?"  
  
Stan shook his head. "No, no. We were in the backyard. Me and the fisherman. It may come to you as a surprise, but I can be discreet, and I can read room and occupants pretty well. I wouldn't have moved a finger if I hadn't been sure he was interested. The problem was..."  
  
He stopped, then pulled a long, slow drag. "Well, you aren't wrong. This isn't exactly the best place for something like that. I don't think _he_ knew he was interested. I think I kind of... overwhelmed him."  
  
Ford considered Stan's words silently. More questions popped up in his head, but he preferred waiting for Stan to continue on his own.  
  
"And, well, the rest is bad luck and poor timing. His father must have come out to take out the trash or something, he must have overheard us. So one moment I'm trying to make this guy not have a heart attack on me, and the next moment someone is grabbing me and grating my face against a metal grid."  
  
"What?" Ford burst out with genuine indignation. Stan let out a small laugh, elbowing his arm with a hint of playfulness.  
  
"What? You thought I got these in a fair fight? I punch demons and zombies to dust, Ford. Have a little faith in me, for heaven's sake."  
  
"Coward." Ford muttered, then a sudden thought distracted him. "Wait, how long ago was this? If he called the police, we should set sail immediately if we want to avoid more trouble."  
  
Stan looked at him quizzically. "What do the cops have to- Oh, right. No, it's not illegal here. Again, I'm not a complete idiot. I doubt he'd try to rally angry farmers with pitchforks either, guys like those would rather avoid the publicity."  
  
"I suppose... What about the fisherman though?"  
  
"He did try to stop him. But not too much. I mean, what could he do? Defend the perverted stranger making moves on him, or turn against the rightfully disdained father? Not that much of a choice there."  
  
Silence fell again for a good minute, then Stan cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, yeah. My bad. You may want to keep away from the pub tomorrow. I wouldn't trust him not to spike your drink or, I dunno, accidentally trip and stab you with a kitchen knife."  
  
"Oh, I'd like to see him try." Ford's tone earned him a curious glance from his brother, but he didn't pay attention to him. He was still busy picturing the regrettable incident in his mind. "You did disinfect yourself, didn't you? We did get our tetanus shots before we left, but..."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, thanks for the alcohol."  
  
"Peroxide would be preferable in this case though, alcohol isn't as effective-"  
  
"Didn't we run out of peroxide last week?"  
  
"I got some more yesterday while I was restocking. It's... still packed in the storage, I think."  
  
"Okay, thanks Mom."  
  
"Are you still trying to make me want to punch you?"  
  
Stan snorted and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "No. No... Sorry about... all that, I guess I was..."  
  
"...Testing the waters?" Ford wished he could feel rightfully offended by Stan's distrust, but his past behavior had probably warranted far worse offenses.  
  
Stan grumbled in assent. He gesticulated widely with his hand, the bright red dot of his cigarette following his movements and drawing deformed circles in the dark air.  
  
"...You never know about this kind of stuff. Or any kind of stuff, really. Not even big things, dumb little details too. Sometimes it takes nothing for people to U-turn completely on you and, well... If- if this had to be one of those cases, better sooner than later, I guess."  
  
Ford could vaguely recall, in another place and another time, a simpler but similar conversation with his brother, about a dejected little kid whose extra finger had horribly spooked a charming little classmate. Ford's mouth curved into a small, nostalgic smile.  
  
"...I think I know that feeling."  
  
Stan smiled back to him, and fell silent again. His tone was a bit lower when he spoke again, a little bit later.  
  
"...Is it like this everywhere? I mean, you've seen a lot of places and people, right? Wild stuff. Is everywhere so... messy?"  
  
"Yes." He didn't even need to think about the answer. "Well, if you're asking about humans specifically, you'd probably know better than me. I've haven't met many others during my travels. If you're asking about 'people' in the broadest sense of the term, then yes. I've visited countless places, observed countless species, adapted to countless social structures. But the unchanging characteristic I have encountered pretty much everywhere is that, wherever there are communities of sentient, individual life forms, there is conflict. The possible reasons are many more than a single person could possibly come up with in an entire lifetime."  
  
"So you're basically saying that life sucks on a universal scale."  
  
"Multiversal, actually. Yes, pretty much."  
  
"Nice."  
  
They both chuckled. Ford straightened up and stretched his back, feeling the tiredness of the day finally catching up with him.  
  
"I think we've caught enough cold for today. How about we continue the philosophical musings tomorrow?"  
  
"You mean when I will actually have to look at your face and I won't be half-drunk? Not a chance."  
  
Stan grinned, flicking the cigarette off-board again. They both followed it with their gazes as it was engulfed in darkness.  
  
"Don't tell Mabel I did that."  
  
"Mh, I don't know, it's the second time in the span of an hour. I think you could use another thirty-minute tirade about environmental responsibility."  
  
"Hey, listen. I'm not accepting lectures about ecology from someone whose interdimensional portal runs on radioactive waste."  
  
"Touchè. I will overlook your contemptible conduct if you help me carry the tools back in the storage."  
  
"Deal."  
  
Stan stood up and stretched his back as well. He squeezed Ford's shoulder briskly as he strode past him, towards the tools scattered on the deck, and Ford couldn't hold back a small smile. It had to be the most sincere thank you his brother had offered him since they departed, he gauged.


End file.
